


Post-Misery Syndrome

by sassyjumper



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Domestic, Established Relationship, Humor, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 10:55:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2809748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassyjumper/pseuds/sassyjumper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wilson is peeing a lot. House must know why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Post-Misery Syndrome

**Author's Note:**

> Just casually moving some old fics here from LJ. Don't mind me.

 

 

 

“Why are you peeing so much?” House demanded as he barged into Wilson office.

Wilson held up his right hand and finished taking some sort of job-related action with his left. He then folded his hands on the desk and graced House with a phony smile.

“You’re right. It’s getting out of hand. I’ve been breathing a lot lately, too.”

“Yeah, yeah. And you actually manage to make it annoying, I might add.” House started to pace in front of the desk. “But let’s get back to your peeing problem. You got up twice last night.”

“Ah,” Wilson said, sitting back. “So your actual concern is that my overactive bladder is waking you.”

House stopped pacing and made a “duh” face. “But,” he added, leaning on his cane, “I’m also worried about it affecting your sleep. You’re way more bitchy when you’re tired—and _wayyy_ less fun at night.”

Wilson blinked. “I see.”

House frowned; he hated it when Wilson “saw.” He flopped down in one of the chairs in front of the desk and brandished the intense stare that usually made Wilson squirm.

“When’s the last time you had a prostate exam?” he began his line of questioning.

“Uh, I get one about five times a week.”

House scowled. “Sex jokes are my thing, buddy. You’re out of your depth.”

Wilson sighed. “I’ll have you know my prostate is in excellent health. I had my routine physical a couple weeks ago—”

“I know that, you idiot.” Sometimes House couldn’t believe Wilson’s naiveté. “But I haven’t been able to get a hold of the record, and Cohen’s not talking.”

Wilson did that low growly thing, and House tried not to smile. “Which reminds me,” he continued, “I think I should be doing your physicals now that we’re gettin’ busy.”

“Oh-hoh, no.” Wilson sliced a hand through the air. “Not gonna happen.”

“Well, I can no longer tolerate Cohen rubbing his hands all over you.”

“He doesn’t _rub_ me. And he’s, like, 60-something years old.”

“He’s a dirty old man.”

“So are you.”

House balked, realizing he had no argument. So he switched gears. “OK, we’ll get back to your prostate later—if you catch my drift.”

Wilson looked skyward, and House leaned forward in his chair. “What were your glucose levels?”

“I’m not diabetic. I just had too much tea before bed last night.”

House wagged an index finger. “You’ve been to the men’s room four times this morning. Unless you had a cafeteria burrito for breakfast—”

“You’re monitoring my bathroom trips?”

Again, House made the “duh” face. Seriously, what was Wilson’s problem?

Wilson shook his head. “Listen, I’m not even peeing when I go there. I just find that the public-bathroom stall is the one place I can get some private time these days.”

“Oh, please,” House scoffed. “I almost always leave you alone in the shower. And when you’re cleaning, I totally do.”

He knew Wilson was bull-shitting him anyway; the little bastard had his own, though admittedly more subtle, need for monitoring. Any time House became consumed with a case and failed to mention he wouldn’t be coming home, for instance, he was punished with a good day’s worth of passive-aggressive pouting.

House tapped his cane on the carpet, determined to get back on track. “Is it painful?”

“Very. Oh, you mean the peeing? No.”

“What color is it?”

Wilson closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “House. I really don’t have any more time to discuss my urine.”

House shrugged. “Then you better spill…Oh sorry, poor word choice.”

Wilson worked his jaw for a few moments before speaking. “Fine,” he said through gritted teeth. “I’m taking a diuretic.”

House frowned. “You’re on your period?”

Wilson gave him The Look, and House sighed. He knew, of course, the real issue: High blood pressure. Not surprising, really. Lots of men in their 40s had high blood pressure. But House didn’t care about them.

“Are you sure?” he pressed. “How many measurements did Cohen take? Maybe you’re a white-coater—”

“I’ve taken my own readings, too, House. I know how. It’s consistently high.”

“Why?” House demanded, knowing it was a stupid question. Some people just had high blood pressure. But somehow he couldn’t quite accept that Wilson did; nothing should be wrong with Wilson—well, not physically anyway.

“Why?” Wilson repeated, then gave a small shrug. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t smoke,” House persisted. “You exercise, you eat your veggies. You’re not all that old—or all that fat.”

“Stop. I might blush.”

House gripped his cane a little tighter. “Since when has it been high?”

_Since we’ve been living together?_ he added in his head.

Wilson sighed. “House, it doesn’t matter.”

That was all the answer House needed. He looked down at his feet. _Chronic stress. Depression?_ But Wilson seemed happy at home. Well, “happy” was probably a strong word…

“House. It’s not you.”

He looked up to see brown eyes gazing at him intently. After a moment, Wilson shook his head and gave House a wry smile. “I can’t believe it, either. But I actually don’t think it’s you.”

House was dubious. “Then why didn’t you tell me? Why aren’t your diuretics sitting proudly in the open?”

Wilson’s eyebrows shot up. “You seriously have to ask? Because I knew you’d make a big deal out of it.”

House chewed his bottom lip. He just didn’t like the timing of this.

“OK.” Wilson said, putting his forearms on the desk and giving House his sincere oncologist eyes. “I’m gonna say this once, and then maybe never again…I’m happy.”

House felt the corners of his lips tugging toward a smile, but he couldn’t completely give in to it. Part of him felt like Wilson had to be covering something up. Wilson apparently sensed that.

“House,” he said wearily. “If you don’t believe me, check my Paxil supply. I started tapering my dose almost a month ago.”

House stared at him until Wilson smiled sheepishly and glanced away, like he was embarrassed to have a reduced need for antidepressants. He really was a freak, House thought fondly. He was about to tell Wilson so, when the truth hit him.

“House?” he heard Wilson say. “You’ve got that look.”

House grinned. “You don’t have high blood pressure.”

Wilson’s little smile turned to a grimace, and he sat back in his chair. “ _Howwse._ ”

“You have SSRI discontinuation syndrome.”

Wilson blinked then shook his head. “No, no. My blood pressure should’ve gone down—”

“Yeah, well, in some people it goes up.”

Wilson’s eyes widened a bit. “But I don’t have any other signs.”

“Don’t you?” House pushed to his feet and began pacing again. “You’ve been complaining that you’re tired and having headaches. I thought you were just trying to get out of having sex. But really, that’s insane. Who would lie in order to _not_ have sex with me?”

Wilson rolled his eyes. “Excellent point.”

House stopped to watch him do that thing where he looked into the distance in mild confusion and thoughtfulness; House thought it was cute—a thought he kept entirely to himself.

Wilson bit his lip. “I just assumed I was tired from work stress. But I guess it’s possible…”

“Of course it is,” House insisted, plopping down in the chair again. “Don’t you see what’s happening?”

Wilson looked at him and House smirked. “I’ve made you so happy, you’ve developed high blood pressure.”

Wilson was silent for a beat, before slowly nodding. “That does sound like something you’d do.”

Then he smiled, genuinely, and House felt his stomach do a little flip-flop. Clearly, he realized, the situation was getting too sweet.

So he leaned forward with a leer. “You know what’s awesome for high blood pressure? Office sex.”

“Hmm. Well, it’s too bad I don’t really have high blood pressure.”

House bobbed his head side to side. “It’s still worth a shot for whatever ails you.”

Wilson huffed a little laugh. “So,” he said, tapping his fingers on the desk, “I guess I can hold off on the diuretic and just ride out this post-SSRI thing for a while. Maybe I went too far, too fast with cutting the dose,” he admitted.

“You’re just that happy.” House couldn’t help rubbing it in his face.

Wilson shook his head slightly and looked at his fingers, still drumming on the desk. There was a short stretch of silence before he peered at House from under his eyelashes. “Um. What about you?”

“What about me?” House felt his gut clench; he knew what was being asked.

Wilson cleared his throat. “Are you…” He gestured vaguely. “Happy?”

House hesitated. He honestly hadn’t pondered whether he was happy these days. It was a question he’d stopped asking himself a long time ago.

He scratched at an eyebrow. “You know I don’t do happy,” he mumbled.

Wilson smiled wanly. “Right.”

House cringed at the disappointment in his voice. One thing he did know was that he wanted Wilson to be happy. He was also pretty sure he couldn’t be happy without Wilson. So that made two things House knew.

He bounced his cane a couple times on the floor. “What I meant was, _happy_ doesn’t come naturally for me.” He waited until Wilson met his gaze. “But I’m getting better.”

Wilson gave him a small, knowing nod. “Well,” he said mildly, “I hope you don’t suffer some kind of misery discontinuation syndrome.”

House laughed before he could stop himself. “Yeah. Well…I’m prepared to ride out the side effects.”

Wilson looked a bit startled at the statement, but quickly regained his nonchalant expression. “Great,” he said casually.

“Great,” House agreed, standing up. “OK. I’ll leave you to your frequent urination, and whatever else it is you do here.”

“That about covers it,” Wilson murmured, returning his attention to his laptop.

House was almost to the door before he remembered something. “Oh,” he said, turning around. “I might be late tonight. My case is…” He hooked a thumb toward the hallway, as if it were explanation enough.

Apparently it was, because Wilson nodded. “OK. Thanks.”

House had his hand on the doorknob when Wilson spoke up again. “Oh, but try to get home at a decent hour, if you can.”

House glanced over his shoulder to see Wilson smiling devilishly. “’Cause you know what’s awesome for SSRI discontinuation syndrome? Piano sex.”

 

 

_—End_


End file.
